


6:37am

by Flutterbank



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 03:21:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1763989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flutterbank/pseuds/Flutterbank





	6:37am

Death was something Sylar had been introduced to when he was just a boy, which meant that when he began his ongoing mission to obtain as many abilities as possible, he was able to shake the Reaper’s hand and greet him like a best friend he hadn’t seen in years.

Everything died (almost). Plants, animals, humans who weren’t given the ability to live forever, humans who weren’t given the ability to steal a chance at immortality; they all died.

It had once hurt, seeing his family disappear, watching people inflict pain on his relatives. When he was the one inflicting the same upon others, he was numb to it. 

Blink, and it was gone.

There was a loud thud against his bedroom door at 6:37am, a number destined to be etched into his brain for the rest of eternity. His alarm wasn’t due to go off for another twenty three minutes, and Peter’s even later than that.

He considered ignoring it, a last ditch attempt at getting a brief nap before he needed to be up, but as always, his curiosity got the better of him.

It killed the cat, apparently, but he had more than a measly nine lives.

He looked at the pants hanging on his wardrobe. Did he need to be dressed smartly to see what was going on? If it was an intruder, no; no point getting blood on his favourite shirt.

He tilted his head, closed his eyes, took a deep breath. No blood. That was the old him, the one that was fascinated by blood, pain, death, clockwork.

He examined his pyjama bottoms and his white vest shirt. Peter had seen in him worse (he’d once worn a Spice Girls tank top to prove he could win a bet, after all).

Running a hand over his unruly bed hair, he opened the door to find Peter Petrelli sprawled across the floor in shock, his face raw with emotion, his hands clutching at his phone.

Sylar froze, ice filling his veins, pounding in his ears.

"Emma? Hiro?"

Peter couldn’t even look at him as he choked out the word that Sylar seemed to anticipate in his gut, holding up a photo of something he didn’t want to see.

Twenty three thousand, eight hundred and twenty seconds into the day, and Claire Bennet was dead.

-sxc-

"But I need to understand,” he barked out, and not for the first time. It was almost ten o’clock (he barely even twitched at the thought of opening up his shop later than usual), and all they’d done was sit around and wait. There had been phone calls back and forth between Noah, Angela, Matt, Hiro; every special who had known Claire in some form or another had been contacted, grasping at straws that had been discarded long ago. 

In short, Claire had died. It wasn’t a casual accidentally-electrocuting-yourself-on-dodgy-watch-shop-wiring death, nor was it a normal getting-hit-by-a-drunk-driver mess.

She was dead, and she hadn’t come back. There were various problems associated with that statement, namely that Claire was loved by too many people to remain in such a permanent state.

And others, too. Why hadn’t her ability healed her? Was it a new strain of virus targeting abilities? Who had murdered her, and with what motivation?

Sylar’s questions fell on deaf ears. When Peter wasn’t constantly calling Noah to see if it had been a mistake, he was either yelling down the phone about Claire’s welfare (and a lack thereof), or he was silent and untouchable, tears coming and going as the seconds passed.

Comforting another human being wasn’t exactly a skill Sylar possessed. Manipulating people; sure. Scaring people; easy. Being a shoulder to cry on; pass. Hell, even though he trusted Peter more than anyone else alive, he still had issues opening up to him, no matter how mundane the subject. After accidentally ruining one of his roommate’s shirts during his bi-weekly wash, Sylar had been so racked with guilt that he’d stopped eating properly for almost a month (until Peter caught on that, for once, the Pop Tarts they both loved seemed to be in abundant supply).

Their current circumstances related little to a pink shirt. It was Peter’s niece, a constant beacon in a world often devoid of light, and she wasn’t coming back.

Sylar had yet to dwell on the long term implications. He dismissed the voice that mocked him, taunted him, reminded him that he was the only one left, destined to be immortal and alone for the rest of eternity. He ignored the memories that flashed before his eyes, of the hatred Claire had once possessed, the anger that had evolved into an almost mutual friendship, a possibility of something more, something real.

It was midday when her body was brought to their apartment, out of false hope if nothing else. No one could explain why she hadn’t regenerated, and out of options, on Mohinder Suresh’s suggestion, Noah had brought her to them.

No matter how difficult he found it, Sylar held Peter as his best friend screamed. It was a horrendous sound that reverberated through the building, all but shaking the foundation of their apartment, only fading away as he choked on ragged breaths. Noah looked on in a similar agony, though he didn’t need to yell to make his pain known.  

Placed neatly on Peter’s bed, Claire looked anything but peaceful. It was clear that someone had tried to tidy her up, had attempted to tug their fingers through her dirty, matted hair, had failed at moulding her mouth into a smile.

She looked like she’d never known happiness, and Sylar had to steady himself against the door as he soaked in the sight before him. No matter the lengths they’d come to be able to smile at each other cordially, he knew he’d never forget the pain he’d put her through. Every single expression she’d thrown his way was stored permanently in a part of his brain that existed solely to try and destroy him. Homecoming, Kirby Plaza, open skulls and Nathan and everything in between; he remembered it all, and what it had done to her.

No memory he possessed looked as tortured as the lifeless body before him. Whoever, whatever, had killed her, they’d clearly done everything in their power to destroy her.

He pushed past Peter to retch into the toilet. His throat burned with bile and anger and a goddamn hunger that he’d kept a lid on for so long, because Claire was dead, and he had no clue how to avenge her.

Peter sucked in a breath. “There’s nothing lodged in her skull? The second time we met, she saved me, she-“

"No." 

Noah’s curt response made Sylar’s eyes sting as he reentered the room, greeted by a single pat on the shoulder. He didn’t need to ask to know that her entire body had been searched for some sign of intrusion. He didn’t need to ask to know that nothing had been found.

"I want you to try some of your blood." Noah pushed his glasses further onto his nose, his eyes small, tired, weary. "I want you to try and heal her."

"it won’t work," began Sylar, trying so hard to ignore the hope that temporarily animated Peter’s face. "If her heart isn’t pumping-"

"I want you to try some of your blood."

"It won’t make a-"

"I want you to try some of your blood!” 

Part of him wanted to argue, to bring Noah Bennet down a few pegs, but a stronger part wanted Claire alive. 

He knew it wouldn’t work, and when Peter produced a syringe from his bedside table (he was a paramedic, no one thought to ask questions), Sylar willing gave his blood to try and help.

He had to take the needle from his friend’s shaking hands. As Noah stared intently at Claire’s lifeless form, Sylar pressed the prick to her neck, slowly putting pressure against it as the red liquid disappeared into her body.

Half an hour passed before anyone would admit that she was dead. Noah carried her away in a body bag, Peter shut himself in their tiny bathroom, and Sylar toppled onto his bed, his body shutting down with exhaustion and grief.

-sxc-

"Dude."

A sharp prod to the stomach made Sylar jump awake. An unattractive line of drool trickled down his jaw as he rubbed the back of his neck and grunted in response.

"You said you wanted to watch this documentary, so there’s no way in hell I’m gonna waste my night if you’re too tired to join in." Peter made a point of dramatically pressing pause with the remote, and the images on screen froze in mid action.

"Documentary?" He blinked a few times to try and make his eyes adjust. "What time is it? Shouldn’t you be at work?"

Peter stared across at him, eyebrows furrowed. “Today’s my day off, remember? Besides, it’s gone eight, and I’m not on the rota for night shifts for a while.”

Temporarily forgetting his confusion (he’d fallen asleep in a chair? And hadn’t they already seen this one?), Sylar felt the last puzzle piece fall into place. 

She was dead.

"Claire, is she still…?"

Grabbing a handful of popcorn, Peter nodded, crunching on the salted snack. “Going ahead with the move to Mexico? Yeah. This whole Gretchen thing’s been tough on her, and she said something about following in her mom’s footsteps.” He shrugged. “Her biological mom liked to travel.”

Sylar felt his head spinning, constantly trying to readjust to what was happening around him. “Gretchen thing, no, I don’t…” He forced his eyes shut, breathing in deeply as the image of her dead body on Peter’s bed flooded every sense.

"Look, Gabe, I know you never approved of their friendship, but Claire trusted her, and she asked us to do the same. She never could have guessed that the girl would sell her story like that, but I guess that’s what happens when-"

"Claire’s dead!" he all but roared. He looked at Peter for confirmation, for proof that it had happened, that the pain he felt was justified.

Instead, his friend had the audacity to laugh in his face, almost choking on an uncooked kernel. “You do remember that she’s invincible, right? As in, Claire Bennet, girl with the ability to heal?” He chuckled and turned off the tv, rising from his seat as he brushed away a few stray pieces of popcorn. “I think you’re gonna have to lay off the booze, buddy.” He held up a hand as Sylar opened his mouth to disagree. “I know, I know, alcohol has no effect on you, it was just a joke. I’m gonna get an early night.”

Twenty three thousand, eight hundred and twenty seconds into the day, and Claire Bennet was dead.

Except the watch on his wrist read 8:45pm, and Peter was acting like… Peter. As in, a Peter who hadn’t just lost one of his family members.

A ticking sound echoed in his skull as Sylar tried desperately to cling on to the facts he thought he knew. The rented DVD case lay discarded beside him, a familiar title because he’d already seen it. He’d seen it the night before, the night before everything had imploded in on itself.

He rubbed his fingers against his temple, willing some explanation to appear like a well needed epiphany. Had he dreamt the future, Mrs Petrelli style? Had he seen what was going to happen to Claire if no one intervened?

He grabbed his phone, scrolled down his limited contacts, and hit call. The screen lit up with confirmation that he was calling the miniature blonde, but there was no answer. It wasn’t surprising, really, that she screened her calls to avoid those she didn’t want to interact with. 

Gretchen, right, Peter had mentioned that again. Claire and the brunette had been close, but after college, something caused a rift between the two, and the tall girl had sold a story to a tabloid, all about Claire’s ‘special sexual encounters’, and that was that.

To be lumped with a person like that should have hurt, but Sylar didn’t blame her for choosing not to answer. She was civil with him for Peter’s sake, but it wasn’t as if she was ever desperate enough to request his company alone.

Peter. Peter was always her golden boy, and as luck would have it, his phone sat beside his on their second hand coffee table, just waiting to be used. With a shudder, Sylar’s skin began to ripple over his bones, stretching and adjusting until he looked (and sounded) the part, Peter Petrelli to a T.

He tried again, and after three rings, she answered.

“Hello?”

Sylar frowned as an unease crept into his stomach. “You’re not Claire.”

“And you’re not very polite. ‘Claire’ must have dropped her phone. I just heard it buzzing.”

“Where is she?”

“Do you understand English? Know no Claire. Found strange phone. Jerk on other end.”The voice, a raspy male, at least thirty by the sound of him, had the audacity to laugh. “I reckon I could get a few hundred bucks for this model. Claire should have been more careful with her possessions.”

The phone clicked off, Sylar closed his eyes, and sleep soon took hold as he lulled back against the chair.

-sxc-

"I understand that, miss, but I don’t actually work there, I’m just a- Yes, I know Mr Gray personally, and he’s a very reliable kind of guy, I think you- Look, there’s no need to yell, I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason why he didn’t open his shop at nine, he knows how important it is to be punct- Hello? You still there?"

Sylar pulled his pillow over his head to try and block out the sound of Peter on the phone. He wasn’t usually one for sleeping in, but God, tired didn’t even begin to cover it. It felt as if his body was running on empty, and Peter’s incredibly loud telephone voice didn’t help.

"Gabe, get up, there’s a really pissy woman waiting for her watch. Something about a priceless family heirloom that she needs for some kind of ceremony." Silence, then a huff. "Are you even listening to me?"

"We’re not open on Sundays," he murmured against the sheets.

"That’s great, but it’s Friday, and she really did sound like she was gonna call the cops or something. Anyway, I gotta go, buddy, I’m already running late to meet with Emma. If Claire calls, will you tell her I’ll call her back?" There was a pause, and Sylar could practically hear him hovering in the doorway. “I’m not at work tonight, so I figured we could watch that documentary you’ve been rambling on about.”

Hurried footsteps echoed into the living room, followed by the sound of the front door slamming, and it took everything Sylar had not to close his eyes and sleep for the rest of the day. Alarm bells were ringing in the back of his head because, clearly, something was up, but he was too tired to see what it was.

Strange, that his regenerative ability was failing to keep his body in working order.

6:37am.

Get up. You know there’s a problem, and you know what it is. Wake up and address it.

He buried his head further into his pillow, which had never felt so comfortable. He could practically count every duck feather holding him up, keeping him warm and sleepy and tempted to stay in bed for the foreseeable future.

Claire’s dead, and you’re the only one that can help. I need your help.

His eyelids fluttered as he tried to wake himself up. Peter had mentioned a documentary. Hadn’t they already seen that?

That’s it, come on, fight it. I can’t help you if you don’t help yourself.

Twenty three thousand, eight hundred and twenty seconds into the day, and Claire Bennet was dead.

Sylar sat up, stiffly, eyes sore, his temple aching with what felt like a lack of sleep. Claire was dead, or was going to be. He didn’t know what was happening, but he knew he had to help her.

He tilted his head and closed his eyes. Someone had been in his thoughts, urging him to wake up. It wasn’t a familiar voice, and as far as he could remember, he didn’t have an alternate female personality that told him what to do.

With a groan, he shook his head in a feeble attempt to rid himself of his exhaustion.

“It’s a side effect,” came a quiet voice from the shadows, slightly accented (Jaimacan, possibly?). Sylar’s gaze snapped towards the intruder, a small girl, non-descript, dark skin and darker eyes, whose face was mostly covered by her braided hair. Though part of him wondered if he should have been alarmed by her presence, another part accepted it without question (with the things he’d seen and been through, potential burglars were the least of his worries).

“A side effect of what?” He rubbed his eyes roughly with his knuckles, barely stifling a yawn.

“Of my ability.” Her eyes remained fixed on the floor as she stepped towards him, and he found himself staring at the set of keys she fumbled between her fingers. “It’s hard to control.”

Ordinarily, new abilities were the equivalent of a newly released book by his favourite author. He drank them in greedily, wanting to know every little detail, eager to discover if he was able to reproduce them if given the chance. The hunger was different, now. Unlikely as it seemed, he figured that the more abilities he possessed, the better equipped he was to help others in the future. Peter was big on that, on finding struggling specials to lead in the right direction; what better way to help than to prove such powers could be utilised safely?

And yet here he was, in the presence of new territory, and all he could think about was how appealing his pillow was.

“Stay with me,” said the voice. Oddly enough, despite the seemingly lack of charisma from the girl, Sylar found himself obeying her request; as much as he wanted to sleep, he wanted to adhere to her command even more. “Claire Bennet is in danger. I’m here to help her, as are you.”

“Why am I so tired?”

Her keys rattled in her hands. “Altering the future is a dangerous task. It seems there’s a balance in place to stop such power being used for illegitimate means.” Now directly in front of him, she finally met his gaze, and Sylar felt all of the air in his lungs disappear. In her brown irises, Claire was dying, alone and helpless and so very, very scared. He wanted to claw at his own eyes to stop what he was seeing, but over and over he watched as the life left her body, as the girl that he’d always been so fascinated with just… ceased to exist. There she lay, dead to the world, her final fight lost.

“Wake up!” His hands shook with blue sparks that engulfed him, burning his best sheets (Egyptian cotton, apparently), lighting up the room with an eerie glow. The girl didn’t even flinch, but simply looked on until it was over.

He blinked once; all thoughts of sleeping had been erased.

“To change the outcome of a person’s death, you need to truly understand the impact of the loss.” She dangled the keys from her hand, no emotion on her face. “When that happens, your body no longer feels the need to shut down; the grief keeps it going.”

Sylar nodded once. “Why me?”

“You’re strong, your powers make you useful.” She bit her lip, carefully analysing him as she drew in a steady breath. “Many people love Claire Bennet, but I think you understand her importance better than anyone else.”

Her eyes flickered in front of him, and he found himself entranced by what he saw. Their first encounter, and the hunger that had engulfed him. The terror on her face, an expression that now made him sick to the stomach. And then their last encounter, which had seemed so insignificant at the time. Her and Peter had made plans to grab some lunch, and when Sylar’s belly had rumbled on cue, she’d invited him to tag along.

He’d said no. Despite wanting to (more than was healthy, no doubt), he despised pity. He didn’t need to make her uncomfortable by taking her up on her offer, not when she’d only asked out of kindness.

A kindness that had been snuffed out by someone else.

“I thought as much.” She paused. “We must go. It happens tomorrow, but as you already know, she is taken tonight.”

“Tonight? As in, that phone call? Doesn’t she lose her phone?”

The girl shook her head, a sad smile resting on her lips. “Kidnapped. Catch.” Without blinking, she threw him her keys, which he caught easily with his telekinesis. “You can drive.”

-sxc-

With the windows rolled down and the very best of Celine playing in the background, Sylar glanced once more at the girl beside him. Her answers were cryptic at best, and unless he initiated some kind of conversation, she remained silent.

He had yet to ask anything that mattered, partly due to a fear that he didn’t want to hear the truth. Time travelling ability or not, there was still a good chance that he couldn’t stop Claire from dying, and denial was a very powerful emotion.

“I help save lives,” she all but whispered, and the tips of his ears turned pink as he jumped. “My ability lets me travel back in time, every ten hours, to prevent a death. Sometimes I can do it alone, but other times, I need help.”

Fingers absentmindedly tapping along to a song, he checked the rear view mirror before watching her from the corner of his eye. “What’s your name?”

“Lucy.”

“How do you know who you should save?”

“I’m not sure.”

“How did you find me?”

“It’s complicated.”

Sylar’s jaw tightened. “Who kills her?”

She sucked in a breath, exhaled, and directed her attention to the blurred images of the places they passed, one colour merging into another. “He is reminiscent of your former personality. The man, who possesses no name, seeks specials.”

A whole torturous song passed before she seemed to gain enough composure to continue, which gave him ample time to become consumed with guilt for everything he’d done.

Again.

“Unlike your past, he does not want to collect abilities, but eliminate them.”

He could sympathise, on some level. It was one thing to be special, something which he’d always craved, but when every other person seemed to be special in their own right, he could see how that might lessen someone’s self worth.

It didn’t excuse this guy, though, not in a million years.

“His ability… Do you know what it is?”

Again, Lucy remained quiet, and two songs passed until she was able to manage a rigid nod. “Yes. He manipulates insecurities, uses them, and when at the peak of his power, the ability of the victim becomes worthless. There was a… boy that I could not save. I tried, time and time again, until blood ran from my nose and I could not continue. I had to watch as this man used an innocent boy’s memories to destroy him.” Despite the overly warm weather, she shuddered violently in her seat, and the rest of the journey remained silent.

Sylar needed the quiet to process the information. From what he could tell, this man played upon a weakness, and once the doubt and fear was strong enough, the target’s ability was rendered useless.

Just thinking about Claire being that vulnerable…

It scared him, this anger that he felt. He’d managed to keep a certain level of control since the years trapped with Peter, but this…

“If we find her before she’s taken,” he began, his voice strained with pent up rage, “is that enough to stop him?”

“No. He’ll find her somewhere else, the outcome the same. He must be dealt with.”

That’s what he was worried about.

-sxc-

They pulled up outside a row of motels in Lucy’s car. A few hours outside of New York, Sylar wondered if this was Claire’s first stop before her ‘big move’ to Mexico.

“What happens if this doesn’t work?” Closing the driver’s door, he leaned against the fading silver paintwork, arms folded over his chest. “How many chances do we get?”

“Not many,” she admitted, reluctance in every syllable. “And if we’re unsuccessful, we have to go back ten hours, which I can’t control.”

He couldn’t let himself believe they would fail, but considering what lay ahead, there was a strong possibility that they’d be severely disappointed.

“So, this guy takes her from-“

“I don’t want to hear what you have to say!” Less than fifty metres away, Claire stepped out of a motel room, phone to her ear and exasperation written all over her face. “You’re supposed to be my friend. How could you do this to me and my family?”

Seeing her alive, it fuelled his need to keep her that way. He’d always admired her, not just for her ability, but because she was strong, for lack of a more descriptive term. Everything that had been thrown at her, Claire had thrown back with ten times the strength. She may have lived a life more privileged than his own, but it had never been easy, and he held her in the highest regard for that.

So what the hell was he supposed to do? He hadn’t discussed their battle plan, and now that the time had come, he had no clue how to react. Would she laugh at him when he told her she was in danger? Would she try and face it head on to prove her inner strength?

“Think fast,” whispered Lucy. She disappeared into the shadow of the car as Claire glanced in Sylar’s direction, only to do a double take when she realised who was watching her.

“Sy- Gabriel?”

He couldn’t help but smile. After their combined isolation, Peter had insisted on calling him Gabriel, no doubt trying to distance himself from the monster that had once tormented him and his family. Claire, on the other hand, had no problem with his adopted nickname, though whenever Peter was within earshot, she tried to call him Gabriel just to please her uncle.

It was somehow soothing to know that old habits died hard.

“Claire.” He lifted a foot to take a step forward, but thinking better of it, remained where he was, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. “I don’t have much time. I’m going to tell you something, and I need you to believe me.” Pausing to evaluate what he’d just asked of her, he forced a shrug of his shoulders. “For Peter.”

“Okay.” There was no hesitance, no laugh, no confusion. She hung up the call, shoved her phone into her backpack, and made her way towards him. “You didn’t need to add that, you know.” When he raised an eyebrow in question, she mirrored his movement with a shrug of her own. “For Peter. I think we’re past the distrust.”

Oh, how he wished he had time to dwell on the implications of that statement. Unfortunately, it was once again time to save the cheerleader, save the world (and it felt refreshing to be on the good guy team for a change).

“Someone’s going to abduct you.” He wanted to smooth out the crinkle between her brows, but resisted as best he could. “You need to let him. By six thirty seven tomorrow morning, he’ll try to kill you, but I’m not going to let that happen, alright? I will not let that happen.”

Her green eyes tried to search his, looking for answers without having to ask for them, until she nodded once and clung harder to the bag hanging over her shoulder.

“Do me a favour. Once the big bad villain is taken care of, will you fill me in on the details?” She smiled, then, a half smile that softened the hint of fear on her face, and Sylar found himself grinning back, reassured by her bravery.

“Sure thing.” He glanced at his watch, making quick calculations in his head, before drawing in a slightly shaky breath. “You need to go. I’ll be right behind, I promise, you don’t need to be afraid.”

“After facing you, I can handle anything.” She had the audacity to wink, like she didn’t hold some kind of invisible hold over him, and God, he just really wanted to pull her forward and hug her, tightly, in case he really messed up.

“I’ll be right behind.”

Getting back into the car, he watched her retreat to her motel room, watched as she gave him the tiniest of waves, and waited.

-sxc-

Luy was right, he knew she was, but watching this man break down the door to smuggle Claire away was one of the hardest things he’d had to do. He was forced to watch as she struggled in good old Bennet style (she even managed to land a kick to the guy’s jaw, which gave Sylar more pleasure than it should have), as she screamed out for help, as she was knocked unconscious by a blow to the head.

“Wait.”

He hadn’t even noticed that his hand had been reaching for the door handle. He gritted his teeth and snorted as Claire was bundled away into the stranger’s car, and when the ignition started, he readied himself to follow.

“Stay back from him,” Lucy warned. “Don’t let him get suspicious. When he stops, we can go in.”

“No.” He looked at her imploringly, gazing back at her eyes that, this time, remained empty. “I want you to stay in the car. If anything goes wrong, bring us back, but don’t risk your own safety for me, for… for her.”

She nodded once, though he could clearly read the uncertainty on her features. “Okay. We must go. Don’t let him get away.”

Gripping the steering wheel tightly, blue sparks flying from his fingers, he managed a smile. “He can run, but he can’t hide.”

-sxc-

According to his watch (which was perfectly maintained and always displayed the correct time), the assailant had been ‘running’ for well over two hours, which was bringing them closer and closer to their deadline. Strangely, they were heading back into the city, and considering that meant a much bigger chance for detection, Sylar was starting to feel antsy. He knew that Claire died, obviously, but Lucy had been vague on the details. In fact, she hadn’t given him any details whatsoever, which was both unnerving and endlessly frustrating.

He’d tried asking, of course, but her response was the same; a blank look and a, “You’ll know soon enough.”

Helpful, really helpful.

The car finally pulled up in the distance, outside what appeared to be an abandoned library of sorts. There was no one around to witness Claire being carried, kicking and screaming, into the building, aside from the two people who had been watching all along.

“It’s not even four am,” he managed to breathe out. “Noah and Peter are supposed to find out in over two and a half hours.”

Everything started to spin. Whatever this man was planning on doing to Claire, he was evidently going to take his time to do it.

“Sylar.” Lucy turned towards him as a droplet of blood trickled down from her nose.

“One shot,” he acknowledged. “Just one shot.”

Climbing out of the car, all of his senses on alert, he wondered if Peter had noted his absence. He couldn’t help the twitch of a smile, wondering if his friend thought he’d finally found a girl to stay the night with (though what he’d think if he knew what he was actually doing, he couldn’t say).

Sex wasn’t something he thought about often. A physical connection with another human being? That was scarier than a lot of the crap he’d had to put up with over the years, and in reality, he couldn’t help but associate it was his former self. It had always been animalistic, raw, dangerous, and honestly, not worth the temptation it attracted.

Had he thought about sleeping with Claire? Multiple times, actually. Back when he was the new villain in town, she’d attracted him with her stubbornness, her bravery, her constant hatred, and it only intensified as they continued to clash over the years. It wasn’t a quick fuck he wanted, though. More than anything, he wanted mutual respect and understanding, but had never truly expected to have it.

His indistinguishable love for her was of no consequence as he neared the building, shoulders hunched in stalker mode. This man had to be stopped, not just for Claire, but for every special out there. He’d been given the gift of redemption, and he meant to make it count.

The building was dark on arrival, save for the flickering of a lone candle, mounted on a desk beside the bound body of Claire. Face pressed against the window panes, Sylar took in the scene, his eyes flicking back and forth to try and gain some kind of upper hand.

The guy manipulated insecurities, but could he work his ability on two people at once? Sylar doubted it. Even now, he found it to be a refined talent, and he doubted the stranger had the practice.

All he needed to do was knock him unconscious with a bout of electricity, grab Claire, and leave.

Except he couldn’t leave the guy. He gritted his teeth and groaned under his breath, because that was a hurdle he’d have to cross when he got there.

Practically tiptoeing to the back door of the building, he let himself inside, not daring to breathe In case he spooked the enemy. He could hear muffled talking, the same voice that had spoken on Claire’s phone, and readied himself for combat.

He felt incredibly rusty.

“What do you want?” asked Claire, a poor imitation of a gag between her teeth. From the hallway where he stood, Sylar could see how much she struggled against her bindings, and how little they moved.

“To see you die,” came the simply reply. “It’s thanks to you, actually, that I started on my mission. I thought I was unique. When my mom tried to kick me out of the house, I reduced her to tears, made her feel like shit over everything she’d ever done to me, and I won. She stopped talking, stopped bossing me around, like she was in some kind of coma.” The man’s eyes flashed in the light of the flickering flame. “I felt like a god. I could fuck people up if they messed with me, so I did. When I saw my ex with another guy, I made him shoot her by playing on his trust issues, and then I made the bastard kill himself for hurting her. No one fucks with me anymore! No one talks about me behind my back, or mocks me for being too shortloud. I can be whatever the fuck I want to be!”

Sylar wanted to storm into the room, to end it before he had to hear any more.

Except he wanted to hear more, the masochist that he was. Once upon a time, he could have empathised. The loner, the outcast, the boy with mommy issues. How did they differ? What if this man had the capability to be redeemed?

“You’re wasting your time,” said Claire, the hint of a joke on her lips. “You can’t hurt me.”

Sylar seemed to be frozen to the spot as the man produced a kitchen knife, long, shining, sharp. The blade cut through Claire’s arm with ease, and he couldn’t look away. Before everything else, her ability was what really captured his heart, and he found himself all but relishing in her body as the skin knitted neatly together, the blood soaking back into her veins.

“I haven’t told you the good bit.” The man stabbed the blade into her shoulder and tightened the rope around her wrists. “By accident, I met a guy who could do things.” He spat the words out like poison, resentment oozing out of every pore. “He tried to turn me to stone, the stupid asshole, but when I used my special power, his stopped working.” His fingers made a gesture reminiscent to an explosion, now smiling, and he could just make out the truth dawning on Claire’s face.

She struggled once again against the bonds that held her in place. “I have nothing to be scared of. I’ve seen it all, and nothing surprises me anymore.”

The man cocked his head in a manner eerily reminiscent of Sylar. “Not even your feelings towards the person that killed your father?” He leaned forward, grinning from ear to ear. “I always do my homework, and thanks to a former…girlfriendof yours, I know all about him, Claire. How he made your life hell, how he tortured your friends, how your uncle forgave him for all the terrible things he’s done, and how you find yourself admiring his chiseled jaw, his eyes, that smile.”He tugged the knife from her shoulder, and touched a finger to the red smear that adorned the steel.

Blood pounded in Sylar’s ears. It was time to act, time to put Claire out of her misery, but he was unable to move, his legs heavy and his heart racing. This was how she died? Her insecurities… were about him? She was left completely vulnerable because ofhim?

“Let her go.” His voice acted before his body did. Suddenly aware that he’d stepped away from the shadows, electricity crackled across his fingers in time with his erratic heartbeat, like a pulse monitor that was suffering with a glitch.

Both faces looked at him, and he could see tears in Claire’s eyes.

And blood, blood rushing from her shoulder, her body no longer trying to heal the wound left from the knife.

The ability, it was working.

“Game over. You’ve had fun tormenting her, but now you need to let her go.”

The man smiled, a childish, kid-on-Christmas-Eve kind of smile, before thrusting the knife into Claire’s knee.

Hearing her cry out in pain sent a shock of electricity across the room. For better or worse, he’d eliminated her need to feel anything, the day he’d opened up her skull.

The ability, it was working.

“Thanks to Claire and that ferris wheel, I realised I wasn’t so special after all. If three people in the world know how to cure cancer, how do you make sure you’re the one that receives the accolades?” He cracked his knuckles, once, twice, three times. “You kill the other two so you’re the only one who can.”

They lunged at each other in the same breath. Sylar’s fist collided with his jaw, the other hitting the invisible target on his stomach. He huffed out a curse as a knee connected with the back of his legs, but he managed to remain upright, trying desperately to ignore the terror on Claire’s face.  His fingertips tingled with sparks, ready to light up the room, ready to bring his enemy to the ground, but as soon as the thought crossed his mind, the sensation was gone. He looked down at his hands fruitlessly, urging himself to fight what was happening.

“I know about you too,” the man said through ragged breaths. “Gretchen was very open about everything I needed to know. That you used to kill people, collecting abilities, until you became the hero.” He spat blood onto the floor with a sadistic chuckle. “I know what you fear, Gabriel, and that’s regression. You’re worried you’re going to be that killer again. Which reminds me…” He stood up straight, though a little wobbly, and glanced over at Claire, whose blood had begun pooling on the table. “How do you plan on killing me without reawakening your hunger?”

There it was. Sylar felt every ounce of strength leave his body, felt every ability crumble beside him. That was the kicker, wasn’t it? He wanted to be a hero, but he didn’t want the responsibility that came with it. Everything he’d fought for, everything he’d become, it would all be lost if he saved the day.

If he didn’t save the day, then he’d lose everything in Claire.

A silver blur caught his attention. The knife, still coated in her blood, was being wielded by the girl he’d planned on rescuing, and it cut through the rope with ease. He didn’t have time to process the fact that her arm was blemish free, that her knee was as good as new, because, out of nowhere, Claire had knocked her captor to the ground, the blade sticking haphazardly out of his neck.

“Don’t you know? As soon as the villain starts monologuing, it’s game over for Team Evil.” Despite her tiny stature, she kept him pinned to the ground as the man growled out in pain. “You don’t get to talk to him like that. You don’t get to belittle him so you can destroy him, destroy us.”She twisted the knife, barely flinching as he screamed. “We’re heroes.”

“Claire-“

“Look away.” She turned towards him, calm, angelic, face splattered with someone else’s blood, and smiled a soft, sweet smile. “Look away. I’m a big girl now, I can do it for the both of us.”

He closed his eyes and held his breath as the man cried out, then… Silence. He tried not to yearn for the satisfaction of death, tried not to remember the sensation of warm blood on his fingers, tried not to wish to be in her place.

A pair of gentle lips pressed a kiss to his cheek, bringing him back from the brink of danger.

“Why did you bother coming? I totally could have handled that myself.”

He choked out a laugh and wiped away the tears that fell from her eyes in a waterfall.

“So you could be my hero, I suppose.”

-sxc-

Lucy felt her body shudder as her eyes lit up the darkness around her. He was gone, at last.

She felt one step closer to getting her wings.

She exhaled.

-sxc-

“Dead, really?” Claire swung her arms back and forth as she walked beside him, perfectly in time with the pace of his footsteps. “I didn’t realise it was that final.”

“Yeah. It was… hard.”

She raised an eyebrow, curbing a grin, but said nothing.

“Are you still planning on packing up and moving to Mexico?”

“I have all the time in the world for that.” She stuck her tongue out at him, and said nothing as his hand brushed against hers (accidental or not, he could no longer tell). “Wait until Peter hears what he missed.”

“I’m glad he doesn’t have to go through that future.” Any hint of amusement was gone as the memories came back (could they be called memories when they hadn’t actually happened?), of seeing his best friend in pieces, of seeing her father so vulnerable.

Of seeing the girl he loved, dead and destroyed.

“Hey.” She stopped him by placing a hand on his arm, looking up with concern shimmering in her eyes. “Thank you. Seriously, Sylar, I… Those things he said about you…” She tightened her jaw, determined as ever. “You don’t need to worry about that. You have friends who care about you, and we won’t let that happen.”

Sylar raised an eyebrow and nudged her gently with his elbow, trying desperately not to ruin the moment by blushing like a ten year old. “We won’t let that happen? Does that mean you’re my friend?”

“I guess it does,” she mused, nudging him back, smiling when he smiled. He wanted to add everything he felt, everything he’d been through to get her back, but it was as if she already knew, had already seen the truth when he’d been exposed to the man’s scrutiny. She hooked her arm in his, holding onto him tightly, and he felt good. Accomplished.

“So, where’s our ride?”

He stopped and cocked his head. “Huh. It seems she’s abandoned us.” When Claire looked up at him, eyes wide and full of life, he couldn’t help but flash her a toothy smile, reserved only for his favourite people. “You’re not supposed to die for another two hours and nineteen minutes. Are you in the mood for a leisurely flight home?”

Claire stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his. It only lasted a second, but it was enough.

“Let’s go."


End file.
